Turning Point||Book 2

37: Romano.

Jerry had squirmed in agony, his eyes darting between me and his father, bound and helpless in the wooden chair. That was before I returned the phone to Max.

No gloves today, just bare hands dancing in the blood of my victim, and you know what? My gut wasn't clenching.

Max, silent and unmoved, captured every gruesome detail on camera for Jerry to see. And by now, I could imagine how sore his throat was.

The old man's muffled screams swallowed the silence in the room as I moved in, methodical and unflinching. He was gagged, strapped, at my disposal. Thumb, pinkie, ring finger – gone, each one providing proof of my anger and ruthlessness. It wasn't about pleasure; it was about sending a message of who held the power in this situation.

Jerry had screamed and trembled when the thumb hit the floor and danced for seconds. Though he begged for mercy, I found myself unable to extend such a luxury. Not when I was interim Don. Not in this country where weakness was a death sentence. Not with a man who'd crossed the Family.

With each severed digit, I had carved my name deeper into his plot, given him more things to jot about me, personal now, though publishing it would be the last thought he entertained.

As I watched the old man squirm before me in pain, the shadows around me only grew denser and darker, could feel it. But in the core of the darkness was where I normally thrived. And tonight, the message was clear: cross me, and you'd lose more than just your fingers. You'd lose everything.

"Jerry," I growled, gripping his father's bloodied palm with a steady hand. "This is your last chance." The knife met flesh once more, drawing out another agonized scream. "Where's my damn proof?"

"Rossi, please!" Jerry's voice cracked with desperation. Desperate enough to remember the right name to address me with. "This is absurd."

"Absurd? You wanna talk absurd, Jerry?" I scoffed. "Wasting my time is what's absurd."

"The other executives are working on it without me. I'm not wasting your time. I'm equally in the dark, but once it's finalized, you'll have your proof..." His feeble excuse echoed in the room like a broken record of denial.

Same old story from before his father had lost any finger at all. The guts he still had to retell it was something. Something I found challenging.

In a moment, I put a punctuation to Jerry's dialogue, silencing him with a swift swipe of the blade, grating through flesh and bone, severing the final link to his father's hand. Another finger hit the floor, dancing to join the macabre collection. While his father's deformed palm wiggled in shock and pain.

My once-pristine shirt was now a portrait of torture. Should've worn black today, I thought, as I smeared more of the blood across the fabric. But perhaps the white served as a better warning.

"By handling it, do you mean involving the police?"

Jerry stumbled over his words, lost in his mental dictionary. Hell, even if given a decade, he'd still not find the right words to express his foolishness. He had thought he could outsmart me, colluding with his cronies to salvage their precious book and shield his family from harm.

But he forgot one cardinal rule: never trust those who can't feel the weight of your suffering.

His fellow executives cared only for their bottom line, willing to sacrifice anything, even his own flesh and blood, to ensure their precious project saw the light of day.

"Romano, damn it!" he pleaded, his voice strained with wretchedness. "The luncheon has been canceled. That has been taken to the media." He had already said that before, even more than once. "The release date has been shifted—"